Lethal
by RandomDarknessPsycho
Summary: It's been three years since the Reichenbach Fall, three years since Harlequin met John. Suddenly, her father's criminal empire is collapsing around her, as though carefully planned, and enemies are closing in. Desperate for survival, Harlequin and Sebastian decide to flee London and take it upon themselves to find the source of their troubles... Before the source finds them...
1. Chapter 1

_Ashes, ashes, we all fall down._

The nursery rhyme rang in her head as she sat on the sofa, watching her favorite show: Live surveillance of John Watson and DI Lestrade. Both men were in a pub, at the bar, chatting and downing shots.

Three years. That was how long it had been since their first and –most likely- last adventure together.

Harlequin Moriarty had, in that space of time, watched them heal from the wounds she'd inflicted on them, watched them go about their daily lives.

The highlight of this drama so far was the fact that the army doctor was in a relationship with a woman. Briefly, she wondered if they'd get married. They seemed serious enough about it.

Flipping her laptop screen shut, the girl placed it beside her and yawned.

_Beep_.

The sound alerted her of a new message, so she took out her phone.

_Quin, we've got to move. –SM_

Ah. Sebastian, predictably. He was out on a job, probably bored out of his mind if he was texting her.

_What, do you mean get a bigger flat? –HM_

_No, I mean we have to do a runner. –SM _

Frowning, Harlequin was halfway through texting a reply when her phone rang, Temposhark's 'Don't Mess With Me' filling the air. She pressed 'answer', holding the device to her ear.

"Hello?" she asked.

A few seconds of silence before a hoarse, male voice replied, "Is this the consulting criminal?"

"No, this is the bloody Queen."

"You've sold us out, you fucking bitch. You better-"

She cut her mysterious caller off. "Okay, bastard, listen here. I haven't fucking sold anyone out, not a _soul_. So what's your problem?!" Harlequin demanded, getting up and pacing around her flat.

_What the fuck is going on?_

"Then why are my men getting raided in the middle of the night by the Yard?"

"That's _your_ trouble."

Hanging up, she was about to sit down when her phone rang again, this time with a woman on the other end of the line.

"The police are here. Did you sell me out?"

"Fuck off," she snarled, hanging up a second time.

On and on it went, until Harlequin got fed up with taking calls. Switching her phone to 'silent', she bit her lip. Something was happening, definitely. Something in her own empire, right under her nose, and she knew not what.

She flipped open her laptop, and checked her emails. Perhaps there was one from Sebastian saying that the whole thing had been a joke. Instead, she got one from an unnamed address:

_They all fall down._

_-SH_

Those initials, those words. Meaningless, yet meaningful. The true meaning of the message was startlingly clear: The complex web that Jim Moriarty had painstakingly spun around him was beginning to snap beneath his heir's feet, thread by thread.

Panic. It was bubbling up inside her and harlequin felt her windpipe close, cutting off the air from her lungs. Her legs were rooted to the spot, her hands balled into fists. A gasp issued from her throat.

_SH… SH… No. Impossible._

It had to be Sebastian. The truth was too far-fetched not to be a big hoax.

A crazed laugh abruptly tore itself from her mouth, and she could breathe, could move. She started laughing. Continued until her sides ached, tears streaming down her face.

_You're such a dumb bitch, Quin. What the fuck were you thinking?_

Jim's web was too bloody strong to be torn down in a day.

The door opened, and she turned, still laughing. Sebastian Moran hurried in, bolting the door shut behind him, the duffel bag containing his sniper rifle in his right hand.

His eyes found hers, widened. "Pack up. We're leaving London now," he said. "And what's so bloody _funny_?!"

"It's a joke, isn't it? You think I'd fall for it?" she choked out, wiping her eyes.

Gripping her shoulders, he locked gazes with her. "This isn't a joke, Quin. Jim's clients are being thrown in jail as we speak. They think we've betrayed them, so they'll be sending assassins."

Her laughter dried up. Without another word, she entered her bedroom, grabbing her coat from the bed. Slipping it on, Harlequin checked that her knives were up her sleeves, her gun in her pocket, her dog tags around her neck, then stood staring at the toy chest containing the rest of her weapons.

_I'll be back for this shit,_ she promised.

A crash could be heard from downstairs, footsteps thundering up. Heading for her flat.

"Let's go!" Sebastian yelled, appearing in the doorway.

Hands began pounding the door, trying to break through.

"Open the goddamn door, you fucking bitch!" someone was screaming. It sounded like her first called, the man with the hoarse voice.

Harlequin felt the walls around her close in, suffocating her. The sniper grabbed her arm, half-dragging her to the window. The pounding had reached its climax, the man still shrieking.

Suddenly, the door gave way, bursting open, and a dozen men dressed in black came swarming in, pointing guns at them. The moment they saw the sniper and the girl, they paused, regarding them silently.

"Go!" Sebastian broke the spell, shoving her out of the window. She didn't have any time to shriek before she hit the ground, landing on her back with a thud.

_Living on the third floor has its benefits, evidently._

Seconds later, her companion landed beside her, on his feet like a cat. From upstairs came the sound of yelling, and he quickly pulled her to her feet.

She noticed he was still carrying his duffel bag, and he had blood running from the gash on his forehead.

_This indeed is serious shit_.

They ran, out of the alley, into the street, and adrenaline filled her veins, mixed with panic.

And around them the consulting criminal's empire fell apart.


	2. Chapter 2

~One week later~

Harlequin was so fucking done with running. She and Sebastian had left London to go to Dublin, then were forced to flee to Paris, travelling under the disguise of being two backpackers. She'd worn blue contacts, dyed her hair blonde. The look didn't suit her, and she wasn't surprised. Sebastian hadn't taken a disguise. He reckoned her safety was more important than his own.

_Dumb fuck_, she thought, rolling her eyes.

The hotel room was cold, and outside the rain fell steadily. She missed London. If she had it her way, she'd be taking the assassins sent after them head-on, but on the first day, in a fit of panic, she'd fled. And now there was no turning back.

As Jim's heir, she was a treasure, or a target. So the sniper had made her safety a top priority.

A cold hand fell on her shoulder, and a face she hadn't seen for years greeted her with a grim look, his obsidian eyes sad.

"Coward," Jim Moriarty addressed her, shaking his head. "You're a coward."

"Who said so?" she retorted, glaring.

"_I _said so. You _ran_ from London as though you were helpless as a fucking _baby_."

"I didn't _want_ to: Seb made me."

"Wrong. You _panicked_," Jim sneered, and he raised his hand and slapped her. "You panicked and _fled_."

It hurt. She didn't know being slapped by a hallucination actually _hurt_.

"I'm going back. As soon as I find out who's behind this," Harlequin growled, rubbing her cheek.

"We both know who it is."

She nodded, smiling all of a sudden. "Yes, but that's bloody ridiculous. So go the fuck back into my brain and leave me alone."

"Sherlock Holmes is alive!" her father screamed, slapping her again. "He's the one behind this!"

"Go the fuck away!"

"Fine." Shrugging, the consulting criminal sauntered away, and she knew deep down that his words were all true. Every single one of them.

Sherlock couldn't have died at St. Bart's _that_ easily.

A knock on the door interrupted her troubled thoughts.

"Come in," the girl called, and a maid came in, her smile not reaching her dark eyes.

"Your friend left a letter at the front desk, told me to take it up to your room, miss," the woman informed, handing her a sealed envelope.

Harlequin waited until the maid left, then carefully opened the envelope. Inside was a scrap of paper with a message hastily scribbled on:

Being followed but some shady blokes in expensive suits. Not coming back tonight. Don't worry. Will be back in the morning. –Seb x

This was the chance she'd been looking for. A chance to go out and investigate instead of relying on the sniper's scouting skills. Putting the letter aside, she giggled. Maybe she'd even find the time to murder someone.

_Yep, that sounds _wonderful.

~Ten minutes later~

She sat in the library near the hotel, at one of the desks, using the free computer service to access her emails. Sherlock –if it was truly him and not some imposter- hadn't followed up with a second email. Probably, he was waiting for her answer. She began to type.

You think this is funny, you arse? Because it's not. When I find you, I'm going to fucking kill you. –HM xx

_No, that's too childish._

Harlequin tried again.

Hello, Sherlock. Do you still want to play? Because I'm ready. I don't care if I'm being hunted. I'll take care of you first. So name a time, a place.

I'm waiting.

-Quin xx

Clicking 'send', she sat back and sighed. Now there was nothing more to do but wait for a reply. Glancing over her shoulder, she realized she was alone in the library, and was about to rejoice over that fact, when the woman in grey appeared from behind one of the shelves, walking briskly towards her. Her lipstick was pale pink, her eyes a rich brown.

Harlequin's danger sense began tingling faintly. Making her movements casual, she shut the computer down, got up and nodded to the woman, gauging her reaction.

Those brown eyes widened a fraction, then returned to normal, but that was enough.

The girl walked out of the library, down the steps, all the way to the sidewalk. The woman seemed to be tailing her. No problem. She could handle a mere woman.

"Excuse me, are you Harlequin Moriarty?" the woman asked, right behind her. She whirled around, her elbow cracking against the woman's jaw. The assassin cursed and the girl drove her fist into her belly, causing her to stumble, winded. Harlequin did a thing, her knife sliding neatly down her sleeve, landing in her right hand. The assassin ducked as she lunged, snagging her wrist and twisting. With a yelp of pain, the girl wrenched her hand out of the vice-like grip, dropping the knife in the process.

Both regarded each other, standing perfectly still.

The younger woman did what any sensible person would do. Harlequin understood that she'd face Jim's wrath later, and her own anger, but she wasn't in the mood.

Turning around, she darted across the road and ran as though all the demons in Hell were chasing her.

Yet the brown-eyed woman continued her pursuit.

_Fuck._

Down the street, dodging oblivious tourists and passer-bys, she decided to finish it. Leading her pursuer into an alley, she whipped out her gun, whirled around, aiming at the woman's chest.

"Shoot me. I dare you," the assassin challenged, wearing a mocking smile.

"You're just another assassin."

"True. So do it."

"How did you know I was Harlequin?" the girl questioned. If their cover was blown, she and Sebastian would have to do another runner.

"Sweetie, didn't your father _ever_ tell you about having an older brother?"

"I have… an uncle…?"

_Goddamn it, Jim._

Lowering the gun, Harlequin's eyes narrowed. She wanted an explanation and _now_.

"James Moriarty. He's an ex-soldier."

"Ah. Look, lady, I don't give a fuck. So shoo," she said, gesturing with her hands. "Go on now. Shoo."

The woman in grey laughed. "No. I'm meant to bring you back to him."

"Does he know where Sherlock Holmes is?"

"Most likely."

A plan began to formulate in her mind, but a sudden thought struck her.

_Is this a trick?_

"Who _are_ you?" Harlequin asked.

"Natalia. I am a hunter of men," the assassin replied, proudly. "To your uncle, perhaps a bodyguard, nothing more."

_Maybe more…_ she thought, spotting the gold band on her wedding finger.

Harlequin stuck up her middle finger. "Fuck you. I don't want you help."

Natalia shrugged, unconcerned. "Have it your way, but I'll be in touch." The assassin slunk away, and the girl shook her head.

Sherlock was going to fucking get it when she cornered him.


	3. I Had To Leave This Note Here

*coughs and comes into view*

Ah, hello.

I suppose we meet again.

Well, I've decided to, um, come back to Harlequin because I wondered how Sherlock's return would affect her, how the falling of Moriarty's empire would crush her.

Also because I was bored.

I might not do a good job on this like I did with Dangerous.

And for that *bows* I apologize sincerely.

I might update at random times, but I'll try to make it as daily as possible.

*giggles*

Thanks to my very own Seb, who basically beta-read the thing and gave me some ideas ^^

*bows again*

And thank YOU for reading this ^^

I love you ^^

*quietly leaves*

PS. I'm sorry for my terrible writing and all. I know I'm bad.

Oh yeah, before I forget (which I always do), all the characters belong to Sir ACD and Moftiss. Except the OCs.

I'm not sure about Harlequin though, but never mind.


	4. Chapter 3

Harlequin lay in the darkness, staring at the ceiling. She'd taken out her contacts, washed the dye out of her hair.

"You never said you had a brother, you bastard," she complained, folding her arms.

"Perhaps it wasn't important. I never really liked him," Jim replied, suddenly beside her, eyes glittering in the darkness. "Stupid fuck. Everything I did, he did better. Except being a criminal wasn't his thing."

"Should I go back?"

Even lying down, he managed to roll over and slam his foot into her leg, and she swatted him. "Obviously. You're so goddamn dumb sometimes I wonder if you're even my spawn."

_I should probably go and look for Seb, ask him his opinion._

Getting up, Harlequin walked to the door, looked back at the consulting criminal. "You coming?" she questioned.

"If you want me to," Jim said.

"Alright, come on."

~Five minutes later~

She'd called Sebastian, but he hadn't answered, and she started to worry.

_What if they caught him?_

No, the sniper was too smart for that.

_Where would _I _go? _ she wondered, looking up and down the empty street. _If I were being followed? _

"Try thinking like Tiger," Jim advised, a little way behind her, using his pet name for the sniper.

Think like Sebastian? She frowned.

The only place Sebastian had ever deemed safe in a country was the park. It was open, true, but there was plenty of space to dodge bullets and hide.

"Come on!" Harlequin grabbed her father's sleeve, breaking into a run.

Somewhere in her mind, a Voice rang out: "_He'll die if you don't get to the park." _

"NO!" she yelled, increasing her speed. The wind whipped at her, she let go of Jim, and panic was building up inside he, panic and desperation. "SEBASTIAN!"

The sniper's name echoed around her as she neared the park.

Just as she entered, she heard an equally-loud scream tinged with pain. "HARLEQUIN!"

The Voice started to laugh maniacally. "_You can't save him can't save him!" _

"SEBASTIAN, WAIT!"

Panting, she reached the source of his voice, halfway up the path, and saw the sniper on his knees, hands behind his head. A blood-stained butterfly knife lay on the ground beside him, along with a piece of rope. The ground, she noted as she went towards him, cautiously, thinking it was a trap, was splattered with dark crimson.

"Are you okay?" Harlequin demanded, getting down on her knees in front of Sebastian, concern suddenly washing over her. She didn't care if this was an ambush. "Seb? Are you OKAY?"

She was shaking, running her hands over his body, trying to find out if he was so hurt. It was so dark, and she knew she'd die if she lost him. Literally. He was her bodyguard, her only protector. Not like she actually _needed _one. She was quite capable, really.

"I… I'm… Take off the blindfold, _please_," the sniper pleaded, holding his hands awkwardly away from his sides.

The girl did as he bid, dropping the piece of black cloth and asking him if he was hurt, damn it, tell her something. Rolling up his sleeves slowly, he showed her, the moonlight giving her all the light she needed to see what they had done to him.

Both words were huge, stretched so that they reached both ends of his arms, carved into his flesh. The wounds were still glistening, dripping with blood.

'We are coming' on his right.

'You cannot stop us' on his left.

Panic was replaced by some sort of cold fury.

How _dare_ those fucking pigs touch _her_ sniper? How _dare_ they scar the skin meant only for _her_ to scar?

"Fuckers," Harlequin spat.

She was all geared up to kick ass when she noticed the man's expression: Sebastian's eyes were starting to glaze, hands trembling, she knew he was going into shock.

Helping him up, careful not to touch his wounds, she began to walk, slowly, murmuring things to him.

"We're going to be okay, Seb, we're going back to the hotel, okay? Get you all patched up, tucked into bed, yes? I'm going to kill the bastards who did this to you, I swear to God."

"They left… me as a… warning," the sniper got out, each word tinged with pain.

"Who?"

"The… man with the hoarse voice… and his companions…"

"We'll take care of Sherlock then get them," she promised, letting him lean on her.

The Voice chuckled. Like it had _other_ plans. But she ignored it anyways.

~Back at the hotel~

The girl had done as best as she could, cleaning and bandaging the sniper's arms, all while telling him about her encounter with Natalia.

Now Harlequin sat on the edge of the window, her back against the cool glass, watching Sebastian watch her from the bed.

"Why don't we just run away, leave this goddamn life behind, Quin?"

She laughed, bitterly. "It's not that simple. Plus, I'm a Moriarty. We play to _win_."

"Why don't we fake our deaths?"

"Go the fuck to sleep."

It was meant to be said with some fondness in it, but she suspected she sounded harsh, because the sniper fell silent for a few minutes. The pair did not meet each other's eyes.

"Look," she said, finally. "I'm sorry but-"

The door burst open, light from the corridor slicing through the darkness. Harlequin leapt up, gun already in her grip, pointing it at the intruder.

"There's no need for that, sweetie."

Natalia strode in, smirking.

"Didn't I tell you I didn't need your help?" The girl pocketed her gun, angrily.

"But your uncle knows where Sherlock is."

That was the ace card, and they both knew it.

"Excuse me, but what the fuck?" Sebastian sat upright, staring in disbelief.

Ignoring him, Natalia continued, "He wants you to know, too, purely because he thinks that you'll kill Sherlock, thus defending Jim's memory."

"Where is he?" Harlequin quizzed, anger rapidly fading.

"Your uncle? London."

"I mean Sherlock."

"That, only James knows."

Casting a protective glance at the sniper, she bit her lip, thinking. It didn't take her long to make a choice.

"Okay. We'll come to London."

"Wonderful!" Natalia giggled, clapping her hands together. "All the arrangements have already been made. You two just need to pack up and follow me."

"Can't we leave tomorrow?"

"Why?"

"Seb's… kind of tired."

A flash of anger was momentarily visible in those brown eyes, but it soon subsided.

"As you wish, Miss Moriarty."

_Bitch._

She pointed to the door. The assassin obeyed, leaving the room and shutting the door none-too-gently behind her. Harlequin motioned at Sebastian to lie back down.

Then she sat by the window and wondered if she'd made the right move.


	5. Chapter 4

~Heathrow International Airport~

The trio walked into the arrival hall, scanning the sea of faces before them. Harlequin had her hand on Sebastian's arm, afraid he'd exhaust himself, but the sniper seemed in stable condition. Natalia spotted someone, raising her hand in acknowledgement, and led them towards that person, a red-haired man wearing a suit and white gloves.

_A chauffer? Nice touch._

The driver nodded at the woman, barely spared the man a glance, but extended a hand towards the girl.

"Miss Harlequin, I suppose. Welcome back to London," he said, pulling back when he realized that there was no way in hell she was going to shake hands with him.

"That's enough, Erryl. You're being paid to drive, not to hit on teenagers," Natalia snapped, and Erryl fixed her with an insolent glare, turning and striding away.

"Welcome to London my ass…" Sebastian muttered under his breath, and Harlequin chuckled.

Stepping out of the airport, the driver directed them to a sleek, black car with tinted windows. They got in. Erryl started the engine, gunned the accelerator, and they were pressed back into the leather seats because of the sheer speed.

"You'll _love_ James, I'm sure," Natalia told them, sounding polite for once. "He absolutely _adores_ the feisty ones."

"Oh, joy," Harlequin mumbled, looking at her nails. She couldn't wait to get back to her flat, make sure everything was in order, grab her laptop and check on her boys. Weirdly, she missed those two bastards.

_Whatever._

~An hour later~

James Moriarty lived in a nice house, his niece had to admit. It was a homely little house, at the corner of the street, a little way outside London. An average man could've lived there and led his average life with his average family.

The car pulled up outside the house, and Erryl motioned at them to get out. The trio did, and the woman with brown hair led the way up the front steps to the oak doors. Harlequin noted that she paused for a couple of seconds before fishing a key out of her pocket, and unlocking the door.

A man sat on the sofa in the living room, wearing a cardigan. It wasn't even a nice cardigan. Natalia beamed at the man, then vanished in the direction of the kitchen, leaving the three of them staring at each other like complete idiots.

"Hello there," James Moriarty said, grinning, warmly. "You must be Harlequin. And Sebastian Moran. How delightful that you decided to take up my offer."

He got up, came up to them, and offered the sniper his hand. Sebastian scowled, ignored him, and the ex-soldier turned to Harlequin instead.

"Look at you, all grown up. Not to say that I've ever seen you." He roped her into a bone-crushing hug before she could step back. Her face was crushed against his shoulder, rubbing into the fabric of his hideously green cardigan. She couldn't move, her arms pinned by her sides, standing still.

_Fuck. What's _wrong_ with him_?

Finally, James stepped back, laughed, and ruffled her hair. _Her hair._ As though she was a puppy. This made her angry.

So before he'd even invited them to sit down, Harlequin had her remaining knife at his throat.

"First thing's first," she snarled. "I do not hug people like _you_. I do not give a fuck about you. I only want to know where Sherlock is. Got it?"

The man nodded, moving his head by a fraction of an inch. Up close, she could see how he looked like Jim, yet not like Jim. Where her father was slender, this man was well-built, muscled. A soldier's body. Broader shoulders, too. Eyes that held more warmth and humanity than she'd ever seen in another person before.

And the odd bit of it all was that he wasn't afraid. He didn't reek of fear. Harlequin guessed it was being a soldier that did it to you. Made you think you were invincible.

_You and I bleed just as easily._

Forcing her lips into a smile, she pushed the knife back into her sleeve, and sat down on the sofa, and her sniper joined her.

"So, where _is_ Sherlock?" she questioned, as James took a seat in the armchair opposite them.

"London, of course."

"Where in London?"

"That, I have yet to find out."

"Do you have a laptop I could use?"

"Of course."

He gestured to the black bag by the side of the sofa, and she took it, unzipping it and pulling out the laptop.

It took several moments for her to start the device up, get to her email, and those moments were spent listening to her uncle babble on about how he was _so sorry_ about Jim's "unfortunate and grisly" end, and how he regretted not showing his younger brother the right path.

Holding up her hand, Harlequin shushed him, and clicked her latest email.

_In London are we? Brilliant. Well, I suppose that 221B is off the list, because I'm still dead. Technically. And so is St. Bart's. Hm. Take a taxi there, will you? Alone, whenever you fancy._

_-SH_

"Take a taxi to _where_?" she hissed, frustrated. All that for a stupid email which didn't really make sense.

Silence. She looked up. Sebastian and James were staring.

"Um." James cleared his throat. "No luggage I take it?"

Shutting down the laptop, Harlequin shook her head. "Nope. Can I ask you a favor?"

"As many as you wish."

"I want Erryl to take Seb back to my flat. ASAP."

"What?!" Sebastian almost yelled, stunned.

Pretending she'd never heard his protests, she smiled. "That's all, thanks."

Her uncle motioned for them to leave if they had to. So she stood, grabbed the sniper and dragged him to the front door, opening it and going outside, making sure it slammed shut behind her.

Erryl sat on the sidewalk, wearing an expression of pure boredom. She tapped him on the shoulder, fixing a cute smile on her face. Well, as cute as she could manage.

"Erryl, could you send Seb home?" Harlequin asked, supplying the address for him.

The chauffer smiled back. "Why not? Come on, Mister, hop in."

Sebastian stood there, unwilling to budge. His arms were folded. A frown on his lips. "I'm not going anywhere without Quin. I have to protect her."

Harlequin sighed in exasperation. A thought flickered across her mind. "Fine," she said, relenting. "I'll come along."

The three of them got into the car, the girl making sure to sit in the passenger seat, leaving the sniper in the back seat alone. The car began moving. Slowly, she realized that she'd come to London for nothing. Her uncle knew Sherlock was in London, but couldn't pinpoint his exact location.

_Useless fuck._

At least she was home. Hunted, but home. This was her turf now, she knew it like the back of her hand. Her turf, her rules. Simple.

"So, your father's dead. How about your mother?" Erryl started the conversation she was dreading to have.

"She's dead too," Harlequin said, waving her hand expressively. "All I have left is Seb."

Behind her, Sebastian coughed, loud and obvious.

"Ah. Must be lonely. Do you miss them?"

_With Jim pestering every time, insulting me to my face? _"No. Why should I? They were convenient, true, but also a tad unnecessary."

Shock registered on the red-haired man's face, and she had to stop the grin from spreading across her face. He was beginning to grasp the fact that she was no plain Jane. She was ruthless, a weapon shaped by her father, given purpose.

Something lethal, even.

"Um. Um," Erryl went, unable to continue. He had no idea what to say to her.

"If you can't say anything else, why bother trying to?" she asked, shrugging. That shut him up real quick.

~A while later~

The car pulled up outside their flat, and Harlequin winked at Erryl, getting out. Sebastian followed her. She waited until the car had driven off, then glared at the man.

"Listen here. You are to _not leave the house_ unless absolutely needed. You are not to do anything rash. _No alcohol, _ you know what happens when we both get sloshed. I'll be home by morning or something."

"Where are you going?" he quizzed.

"Honestly? I don't know," she admitted. Then she gave him a little shove. "Go on, get upstairs."

Sebastian remained where he was for a few seconds. His arm moved, snapping a smart salute. "Yes, sir." Turning on his heel, he pushed open the door and disappeared from sight.

_At least he's out of the way._

She couldn't risk hurting Sebastian.

Throwing out her hand, she hailed the first taxi she caught sight out, and got in. She didn't tell the driver where to, he merely kept on driving. Somehow, he _knew_ where he was going, who she as, where her destination was.

Sherlock was a good planner, Harlequin had to confess.

"Where is Sherlock?" She leaned forward, prodding the driver with her finger. "Tell me. I swear I won't kill you."

No answer.

"Can you hear me?"

She flicked his ear. No visible reaction.

_What the hell is this?_

Leaning back, the girl sighed. Tried to get comfortable. It was going to be a long ride, apparently. Might as well plan how to kill the consulting detective. Her eyes began to close. God, she was tired. Jet lag, she supposed. Closing her eyes for a minute or two couldn't hurt her, right, it couldn't-

She awoke, frowned. Something was wrong. The taxi was going too fast. Sitting up, Harlequin tapped the driver.

"Excuse me, I don't give a fuck if you don't want to talk, but aren't we going a tad too fast?"

In reply, the driver sighed, softly. "How frail human beings are. How fragile."

"I'm in no mood for poetic shit."

Wiping the sleep from her eyes, she realized they were speeding across a bridge, they were _that_ far from her flat.

"STOP THE CAR!" she screamed, but the car sped up. Kept on speeding. She slammed her leg into the window. It bounced off. The driver sighed once more. She didn't want to hurt the man because then who would drive the taxi? She regretted refusing Jim's offers to teach her how to drive a car.

The taxi swerved. It happened in slow-motion. Harlequin saw the front bit fold like an accordion as it hit the railings. Burst through. A shriek. Was that her? For a brief, shimmering moment in time, the taxi was weightless, flying.

The taxi driver still had his hands on the wheel, knuckles white. Yet he still kept his cool in Death's face.

_How professional,_ she thought, just before the car plummeted into the river. A huge splash. Harlequin was thrown against the roof, the glass shattered, water flooding into the vehicle. It was cold, so cold, dark, so dark.

They were at the bottom of the river now. She could see rocks, bits of trash. Swimming to the front, the girl noticed the driver was dead, impaled to his seat by a shard of glass that could've been crafted into a blade by more skilled hands than hers.

A dark trail in front of her. Her forehead and arms stung. The word 'blood' popped into her head. The doors were bent, buckled, and she couldn't get any of them open, so she decided to leave using one of the last available exits: The windscreen. Harlequin propelled herself forward, holding her breath. Jagged bits of glass passed dangerously close to her stomach, but none actually pierced her as she maneuvered her way out of the taxi.

A blast of white pain: A piece of glass had embedded herself in her stomach, and more dark trails were beginning to appear in the water. Forgetting that she was underwater, she opened her mouth to hiss in pain and immediately she was being choked by the liquid.

Her legs trashed, her arms flailed. She shut her mouth. Water sloshed inside but she didn't give a fuck. Okay, maybe she did. People could've pissed into the river and now it was in her _mouth_. Gross.

Choosing to put her pain aside, Harlequin, one hand on the glass still in her flesh, pushed herself to the surface. Or tried to. Surface was a long way off, judging by the looks of it.

_If I die down here, I will be so embarrassed. _

Her lungs were burning. She needed _air. _The water in her mouth was becoming disgusting the more she thought about it, and she had the strong urge to retch. Plus, she was freezing her ass off. The water felt like ice.

The pain no longer bothered her, only the cold did.

_Faster, faster._

Harlequin's windpipe was beginning to close, the pressure on her lungs unbearable.

_A little way more, Quin. Come on, you lazy arse._

She broke to the surface, gasping. The car had gone some way from the bridge, she was amazed to find. People were standing by the gap where the taxi had gone through, and she could see police cars and ambulances. Not like she needed them. All she needed was to get out of those wet clothes and pull that irritating glass out of her body. The girl forced herself to paddle towards the banks of the river.

_Nothing like a little cold water to wake the senses._

Reaching the bank, Harlequin staggered a few feet before crumpling into a heap. Grabbing the shard with both hands, she examined how deep it had penetrated her. Deep, but nothing she couldn't handle. A little pain never killed anyone.

She yanked it out of her flesh, and threw it aside. The cool air hit the wound, blood spurting out and staining her shirt, and she winced.

Okay, after pain usually came death.

Lying there on the banks, she waited for the Grim Reaper to show up, eyes closed, breathing slowly.

"Get up, will you?"

One of her eyes fluttered open. Funny, she hadn't seen a Grim Reaper who wore Westwood yet.

"Come to take me to Hell I suppose," she shot back, holding out her wrists. "Slap on the shackles, I'm yours."

The Grim Reaper kicked her in the ribs, and she yowled, clutching her sides and curling into a ball.

"That fucking _hurt!_" she growled, pulling herself upright, both eyes open.

"Of course. I meant for it to hurt," Jim Moriarty said, gripping her wrists and pulling her roughly to her feet. More blood spurted out, but she didn't care. "Sherlock arranged that, did you know? He intended to _kill_ you. A little ruthless for his style, but what the hell."

"I…"

"Go to St. Bart's. Sherlock has no intention of meeting you. He's going to make _you_ look for him."

Her father was pulling her along now, up the bank. Halfway, her legs gave way and she fell, having not the strength to get to her feet.

She was losing a lot of blood, damn it.

_Seb can fix it. _

Sighing, her father scooped her up, carrying her over his shoulder so she got a first-class view of his ass.

_He must be feeling nice today. I'm getting blood all over his Westwood and he isn't even screeching,_ she formed the thought, closing her eyes.

The pain was returning, too fast for her liking. The cold was better.

St. Bart's. What was at the hospital?

The answer came to her faster than expected:

Molly Hooper.


	6. Another Note

*waves*

Uh, hi.

Um.

My updating is going to get irregular, due to slow ideas, internet connections and studies.

*bows*

Sorry :3

And I have no idea what I write half the time, so please don't get angry with me.

*bows again*

I guess that's all ^^

*snaps fingers; the lights go off*


	7. Chapter 5

The address that Sherlock had given her happened to be a cozy little café that sat overlooking the river where her taxi had crashed and she'd nearly drowned. Harlequin appreciated the location, chosen to smite her.

Tables were scattered outside, shaded from the elements by huge umbrellas, and she saw that the consulting detective was sitting at the one closest to the railings. He wore a red scarf, instead of his customary blue, but retained his coat. An interesting change. He was looking directly at her, and she raised her hand in a sort of wave, more like a sign of acknowledgment.

She supposed this was neutral ground, the no-man's land between their territories. Approaching the table, a smile appeared on her face, and she sat in the chair across from him.

"Good evening, Sherlock. Lovely day, is it not?" Harlequin greeted, doing her best to act charming. "And nice scarf. Such a bright red, it hurts my eyes to gaze at it."

"Indeed. My brother has informed me of your _activities_ with John and Lestrade after the Fall," Sherlock responded. "Oh, you are _clever_, at such a young age."

"So. You faked your death. No, I don't want to know how. All I want to do is to kill you."

"We're in public."

"That's the problem."

They sat in silence until a waiter came up to them and asked them what they wanted to order. She requested two cups of tea for them, just for the man to leave them alone, and the man left.

Leaning back, she squinted at the dark-haired man. "Deduce something about me. Go on, I want to see you in action."

Those mesmerizing eyes took their time, gaze travelling slowly up and down her figure. She braced herself for the torrent of words that would surely follow, knowing that every word that came out of his mouth was going to be true.

"You're Jim Moriarty's daughter. That is pretty much obvious, you resemble him, but you want the whole thing? I'll give you some, can't overload your circuits now, can I? There is a knife up your sleeve. One? Why not two? You lost the other one. Why do you carry knives? Because you're an assassin. You've been to Paris lately, judging from that watch on your wrist, only can be found in France, it's a genuine and not a fake. You've been wounded recently, stabbed. The bulk of your bandages stand out. A gun in your pocket. A faint bulge there, do try to be a bit more careful please. You've spent your childhood fighting for survival and killing others for a living. Scars on your hands show that you're accustomed to being injured. Some of them are deeper than others, your father did those to you, in a fit of anger when you were a child. They're faded so maybe you were about seven or eight. Anything else?"

"I'm impressed."

_He's good. No wonder Jim was so obsessed. _

They locked gazes, and she asked the forbidden question: "And how is Molly? A charming woman, she is."

"You should die for what you did to her."

"I should die for a lot of things, so people tell me." She stood, offered him her hand. "Let's end this, shall we?"

Sherlock took her hand, his own firm in grip, and they walked towards the railings. His hand snaked a little up, she felt pressure against her skin. Was he taking her pulse? How curious.

Leaning against the railings, the metal cool on her skin, Harlequin calculated the odds of her surviving the fall.

Not much.

But it was a risk she had to take, if the need arose.

The consulting detective looked at the girl, slight interest in his eyes. She was a specimen, she guessed, and he was the scientist. Where her father had been a grown man, she was a teenager. She'd be different in so many ways.

"I could kill you right now if I wanted to," he whispered, and she felt something metal and hard dig into her ribs. A gun. Shit. It had been hidden by his coat, and only now had been revealed.

_How you going to get out of this one, Quin? Going to let you blow your organs out? _

The Voice. It chuckled, a deep bass rumble.

_Not today, bastard. Not today._

A grin split her face in half as a tiny red dot danced over Sherlock's body, coming to rest on his forehead and ceasing to move. The man stiffened, but his aim did not waver.

"One signal from me, and Seb will shoot you."

"We'll shake hands in Hell, I suppose."

"Race you."

Reluctantly, the gun withdrew and was tucked back into the coat. The red dot did not move, however.

"Call him off."

"No."

"What can I do to persuade you to call off the sniper?"

"Where are the Dead Children?"

His eyes went distant. He was thinking, and she fancied she could hear the cogs whirring in his brain, processing thousands of snippets of information. His brow furrowed, lips tightened.

"I don't know," Sherlock admitted, finally, transferring his gaze to her. "But I know who can get you in touch with them."

"Who?" she pressed. She needed to know, needed to take revenge.

"Ashlei Valentine. She's the daughter of one the members. She'll be found at the park, every day from ten to three."

"How do you know these things?"

"I just do."

Harlequin held up her hand, snapped her fingers. The red dot vanished from Sherlock's head.

The dark-haired man adjusted his scarf, started to say something. Probably a smart arse taunt or a jibe. But she put a finger to his lips, shushed him.

"Shh. Don't ruin this gloriously dramatic moment."

He stepped back, she stepped forward, finger still in place.

"Shh."

"I am not entirely comfortable with the lack of space between us," Sherlock mumbled.

"Good." The girl used her other hand to shove the man back against the railings, and turned to run when his hand shot out and got a grip on the fabric of her T-shirt, yanking her towards him, but she kicked his shins and he grunted, taking a step back.

She didn't want the shirt to rip, honestly. It was one of the few that wasn't a rag or splattered with blood.

"Let me go," Harlequin hissed, tugging at his hands.

_I can't kill him in public, damn it. I have to… trap him somehow…_

"Why should I?" Sherlock quizzed.

"I won't kill you here and now, and you know this little fact."

"I highly doubt your trustworthiness."

"Holding me in place, you probably look like you're about to push me into the swirling waters below. Or even rape me. People might talk."

In reality, a few people were actually beginning to cast curious glances in their direction. She hoped he'd let go.

The red dot was in view again, when she gazed up at the man. It travelled up his sharp cheekbones, rested briefly on the tip of his nose, then settled between those beautiful eyes that were filled with madness of a different kind.

The consulting detective had realized the dot was there, that the sniper was aiming at him, so he loosened his fingers enough so that the girl could pull away and whirl around to face him.

"I'm going to allow you to walk away from all this today. Because I have a tight schedule. But there's always tomorrow for another date, and the day after that, and the day after that, and the day after that…" she told him, pronouncing each word slowly and clearly.

"I'm looking forward to seeing you again, Quin, was it?"

"Harlequin. But Quin's good enough. No one calls me Moriarty so that's just fine by me."

"Harlequin. Right."

Baring her teeth into a parody of a smile, she reached up and patted his shoulder awkwardly, before sauntering away.

Sebastian would've stopped aiming at his target, starting to pack up his rifle and scope and stand. He'd be waiting for her.

She couldn't wait to tell him that she had a lead that would take them both to the Dead Children.

And all hell could finally break loose.


	8. Chapter 6

~At the park~

Harlequin walked down the path, scanning her surroundings. The park was full of families and couples and the odd individuals, either lying on the grass or engaged in playing games.

All of them looked so happy. It sickened her.

"Ashlei Valentine. Nice name, eh?" Sebastian commented, keeping pace with her. His rifle was in the canvas bag slung over his shoulder, having discarded the duffel bag. She shrugged, indifferently. A name was a name. Except for her name, naturally.

It had a nice ring to it: Knight of the Devil.

"You geared up to kick some insane ass?" she asked, and he nodded.

"Hell yeah."

"Good."

In her mind, she was already planning her next moves: After she'd dismembered all the Dead Children and the man with the hoarse voice, she'd email Sherlock. Tell him she had something special planned for him.

And she knew exactly what to do in order to trap him and kill him out of the public's eye.

Sebastian nudged her with his elbow, pointed ahead of them, at one of the many benches that sat by the side of the path. A woman sat there, in her early-twenties, with hair so blonde that it was almost white and eyes of the most piercing blue.

She wore a brown trench coat, and tights and a grey T-shirt underneath it. Harlequin liked her sense of fashion. Maybe she'd get a trench coat.

Approaching the bench, she sat down beside Ashlei Valentine, Sebastian squeezing in to sit beside Harlequin.

"Good morning," the girl greeted, and the woman with the trench coat smiled.

"How do you know if it's a good morning or not?" was the reply, Ashlei's voice melodious and soft.

"I want to meet the Dead Children."

"For one so young, are you sure? They're insane, dangerous even."

"Do you know who I am?"

The smile widened by a bit. "Even if I don't, who cannot recognize Moriarty's features stamped on your face?"

"So take me."

"Okay. You asked for it. Remember this when they tear you apart."

"Meh."

The three of them stood, and Ashlei began walking briskly down the path, Harlequin by her side. Sebastian lagged behind slightly.

Exiting the park, they headed for the silver car with tinted windows that was apparently waiting for them by the sidewalk, engine running. The three of them got into the backseat, and Ashlei said, "Come on, Seth. My father will be upset if we're late."

"Are we having guests today?" Seth asked from the driver's seat, his voice high and breathless.

"Yes. But not the sort that you can eat. These are _important_ people."

"Shit." The car began to move off at a ridiculously fast speed. Harlequin shot Sebastian a look that read _see, he's a cannibal. See the shit we're dealing with? _

And in reply, he shrugged.

"I liked it better when my mother was around," the blonde woman commented to no one in particular. "It was less of a hassle to keep these bastards in line."

Seth giggled. It was a disturbing sound. "But then your father got cross and her head was severed!"

"That's right." Ashlei giggled back.

_This is some fucked-up shit…_ Harlequin thought, and tried not to make eye contact with both the girl and the driver. Instead, she kept her eyes on her scuffed, black trainers.

_At least Jim was more sophisticated… _

The thought caused her to grin, then she caught herself, and the poker face was back in place.

~An hour later~

Finally, they parked in front of a run-down hotel that sat at the edge of London like an unwanted guest at a party. The four of them got out and Ashlei lead the way into the building, Seth herding them in from behind.

The building itself was grey and creepers crawled up the sides of the walls. Some of the windows were broken, most were boarded up, but a couple remained unscathed. She guessed the hotel was about eight stories high.

The interior of the hotel was… strange, exotic even. The wallpaper was a gaudy red with dragons on them, and the floor was carpeted with a furry carpet that stuck to their feet when they walked. Horrible vases littered the lobby, filled with withered flowers.

Behind the front desk sat a woman with indigo hair and eyes that held a hypnotic quality. Harlequin didn't fail to notice the katana nestled on her lap like a sleeping cat.

"Good morning, Miss Valentine. Your father is waiting for you upstairs." Those eyes- a gunmetal grey- turned to Harlequin and Sebastian. "Welcome to the Reflection. I am Eve Song, your receptionist on duty for the week."

"Hello, sexy," Seth chimed in, trying to smile and doing a horrible job.

Eve pulled a face. They walked to the elevator, and Harlequin wrinkled her nose. The Reflection- a shelter for those poor souls who had succumbed to their inner darkness far less gracefully than her and her parents. The doors slid open, the four of them got in, but Ashlei put a hand to Seth's chest and shoved him out.

"Wait down here. Daddy will want to see me. And our guests," she ordered, and he happily complied.

As the doors closed, Harlequin caught a glimpse of him leaning over the desk, trying to flirt with Eve.

"What, this is like the Ritz for you?" Sebastian asked, and the blonde laughed.

"I admire your attempt at a joke, Mr…? Hm. What shall I call you two…?"

"Moran. And my employee, Miss Moriarty."

"Quin, please," she found herself saying. "Quin and Sebastian."

"My father and I prefer to be professional when it comes to such things."

"That's fine by us. This is your territory after all," the sniper replied, and the girl scowled. Throw him a beautiful woman and he immediately became a gentleman.

The elevator drew to a halt, the doors opened. They were on the seventh floor, judging by the screen in the elevator. They stepped outside into a dark corridor, doors on either side of them. Ashlei went up to the first door, directly outside the elevator, and rapped on it.

"State your name and purpose," came a hoarse voice.

Sebastian growled, softly, and Harlequin put her hand on his arm, a silent warning for him to control himself.

"It's me, Ashlei. I've brought some friends over."

"Oh." The tone of the voice altered somewhat, becoming a little more gentle and civilized. "Come in."

The woman opened the door, and they stepped inside.

The room was like any other hotel room: A huge bed, a minibar, even a TV with a cracked screen mounted on the wall opposite the bed. A door beside that. Probably led to the bathroom.

The man with the hoarse voice stood with his hands behind his back, peering out the window. He wore an overcoat and, from what she could see, a tie. His hair was the color of salt and pepper.

"Miss Moriarty and Mr. Moran. I have been waiting for you. And I am _not_ a patient man."

"Mr. Valentine. What's your first name? Are we on a first name basis?" Harlequin shot back.

"Daddy, can we keep her?" Ashlei pleaded from behind her, as the door was shut and locked. "She might not be the brightest bulb, but she can be funny and I promise she won't mess up the hotel."

"Ash, go and see to Eason. I think he's killing someone down at room 375."

"Yes, Daddy."

_She's a child. She may be older than me, but she's a sulky, insane, whiny yet attractive child. _

The thought almost made her snigger.

The door was momentarily open as the woman went out, then locked shut again. The man with the hoarse voice turned around to face Harlequin and Sebastian.

"We are not on a first name basis, but out of sheer politeness, I'll tell you my name. I'm Glassier Valentine. Also known as the leader of the Dead Children, etc. etc."

"Pleasure to meet you, Glassier."

"Call me Valentine. It's less personal."

"So, basically, I'm here to kick your ass," Harlequin informed, nonchalantly.

"And why is that so?" Glassier Valentine questioned, inclining his head to the left.

Sebastian pulled up the sleeves of his shirt and exposed the words that now were scars.

"You were there the night _this _happened. I saw you, you son of a bitch. You were _laughing _and I swear to God you won't be laughing now," the sniper spat, voice low and dangerous.

"If you kill me, which I highly doubt, the Dead Children will be after you. I'm like a god to them. The only one of them which has hidden his insanity so well that you wouldn't know about the thoughts that run through my head."

"How many are there? Give me an exact number."

"Excluding myself and my daughter, twenty-four."

_Thirty? Natalia's such a lying whore._

"I can handle them."

Glassier crossed the space between them with three strides, and bent down until his forehead was pressed against hers.

His breath smelled of mint, and for the first time she could properly examine him while he talked, fast and quietly.

What he said was for her ears only, not the sniper's, and most certainly not anyone else's.

But it involved a lot of graphic violence and foul language, if you must know.

Harlequin glared at him, and he glared back, a visual war of black and amber.

"How deep does the darkness run in your veins?" Glassier asked.

"It's in my bones," she retorted.

"Did you understand what I just told you?"

A curt nod from her. A grim smile from him.

"Good. I hope it serves you well in the future. If you _have_ one."

The man with the hoarse voice leapt back just as the girl drew her knife out of her sleeve and attempted to stab him. She wound up stabbing the air, and Sebastian snapped into action, slamming his fist into the man's jaw.

An uppercut took the sniper off his feet, landing on his back, and he rolled away just as Glassier brought his foot down to stomp on him.

The door opened.

Eve Song walked in, her steps light. Her katana was in her hands.

"Leave those men to their dance, while we women do ours," she called, and Harlequin spun around to face off with her.

The girl's face fell.

"Look at your sword. It's a huge-ass thing. And look at this!" She held up the knife. "Pales in comparison, don't you think. So, tell you what, let's switch."

"I don't think so."

Eve lunged at Harlequin, and she dodged, the blade missing her by mere _inches_. The girl flicked her wrist, and the knife sailed through the air, headed for the woman's heart, but Eve batted it away easily.

_Shit. I'm screwed._

The only thing to do at present was to keep away from the sword and try to find an advantage.

Behind her, she could hear grunts and guttural growls from Glassier and Sebastian, and did her best to ignore them.

"Hold on a moment," she told Eve, and turned on her heels and ran.

The woman with indigo hair bounded after her, cackling. She thought only witches did that sort of shit. Apparently, she was wrong.

Harlequin headed for the bathroom, rushing in and slamming the door shut. She locked it, but it wasn't enough. A scream of bloodlust from Eve, and a sharp _crack_ as the woman sunk her sword into the wood of the door.

The girl bit her lip.

_Fuck. Now what? _

She'd never been a tactical genius. That trick that she'd pulled on John fell through by pure luck.

There was an open window in the bathroom, the only means of escape. Perhaps locking herself in here wasn't too smart.

The door was rattling, and she knew it wouldn't last Eve's wrath.

So she did the only thing she could do under such circumstances: She swung herself out of the window, legs dangling over the edge. The wind whipped at her, she ignored it, looked around for a way to get out of this tight spot.

Ah. The _other_ window. Perfect.

Carefully, she edged towards it, and took a deep breath.

_It's a long way down…_

_Shut the fuck up._

Harlequin forced herself to extend her left hand and grip the ledge of the other window, the window that was the one Glassier was looking out of when they first entered the hotel room.

She did the same with the other hand.

The bathroom door burst open, and Eve called in a sing-song voice, "Playtime's over, Miss Moriarty. It's time to go to sleep."

"Fuck you too," Harlequin shrieked, as the woman appeared, crouching on the ledge of the window.

Her eyes were wild, and they sort scared the shit out of Harlequin. So she hauled herself up and threw herself at the window, shattering it. Glass rained on her as she fell into the living room.

Cuts opened on her skin, blood beginning to form lines that ran down her arms and puddled on the carpet.

Raising her head, she had a split-second view of Sebastian socking Glassier so hard that his nose broke with a satisfying _crunch_, before Eve's boot came down, forcing her head down. Fur filled her mouth, and Harlequin squeezed her eyes shut.

"_You still have me, don't you?" _

The goddamn Voice giggled at her pain and outrage at being beaten by a madwoman wielding a katana.

_I don't want you. You're just some kind of monster, probably. _

"_But you _want_ to be a monster. You _are_ a monster. I'm just an add-on." _

Her hands were being pulled behind her back by an iron-grip. She heard Sebastian grind out a curse and something hit the floor hard.

"That was surprisingly easy," Glassier said, actually sounding surprised. Like he couldn't believe that beating Jim Moriarty's daughter and faithful sniper was _that_ simple.

"She's just a child playing a grown-up's game," Eve said. Harlequin didn't want to open her eyes.

The sniper might be lying dead at her feet if she did.

"Can I throw her out the window?"

Legs windmilling, she would hit the ground and blood would pour out of every orifice in her body.

Except, unlike a certain consulting detective, she wouldn't be faking it.

"_You always fancied unleashing the utter darkness. What you did to John wasn't even the half of it. I've seen you rip out eyes with your bare _hands_, girl." _

Mm. Eyes. Squishy.

"I'm going to see my daughter. Dispose of the bodies."

So either the sniper was dead or dying.

A click as the door opened, a click as it closed. Deafening silence filled her ears, drowning out all the other sounds.

Eve hummed a tune as she pulled Harlequin towards the window and bent her body.

Air. It was rushing at her face.

_Out the window. How quaint._

A splat and it would all be over.

"I hope you had a pleasant stay at the Reflection," the woman hissed. "Please, _do_ come again."

Harlequin let her do it. Let her take her time in slowly sliding her out of the window, head-first. Her feet were still planted on the ground. Good.

Twisting in Eve's grip, she smashed her head into the woman's, and Eve fell back with a shriek, trying to stem the flow of blood from her nose. Harlequin watched her glee fade to anger, watched her go for her sword, and lashed out with a high kick.

The katana flew out of her grip, landing with a clatter some distance away from them.

"You little bitch!" Eve screamed, dancing towards Harlequin.

"Go and fucking die already!" the girl screamed back, and used the woman's fury to her advantage.

As the woman lunged, she stepped aside. A simple miscalculation, a step too far. Eve slammed into the wall, giving Harlequin enough time to run and snatch up the sword.

It was heavy in her hands, but she could handle it, no problem.

Harlequin swung the sword at Eve as the woman with indigo hair turned around and opened her mouth to yell in surprise.

The blade went clean through her neck, severing her head from her body. The body jerked around for a few seconds, blood gushing from the neck stump. The head hit the ground with a squishy sound, and then the body came crashing down after it.

Blood was beginning to seep into her trainers. It did not feel good. But holding the katana did, and she'd never thought of getting a huge-ass sword before.

_I'll keep this as a trophy._

Wiping the blood off with the edge of her T-shirt, she looked around, puzzled, then spotted Sebastian on the ground.

The sniper was on the ground, curled up into a tight ball, seemingly knocked out by Glassier.

She nudged his face with the tip of her shoe, leaving a bloody imprint.

_Definitely _knocked out.

Harlequin shook him, not too roughly yet not too gently at the same time. "Wake up, you little shit. I'm meant to be the on the ground, okay?"

Those eyes opened ever so slowly, and he uncurled himself. She saw that his shirt was tattered in certain places, blood seeping through.

So Glassier had had a knife.

Well, that was nothing compared to the katana.

"Ouch," was the first thing that Sebastian uttered, followed by, "What the fuck did I miss?"

"You missed me kicking Eve's ass, Glassier escaping and Eve nearly trying to push me out the goddamn window," Harlequin replied, ticking off her fingers.

"Aha."

Groaning slightly, he got to his feet, noticed the sword and grinned. "Cool sword. Now what?"

"I was thinking of razing this goddamn place to the ground. Got a light?"

"In fact," his grin widened. "No I _don't_."

Rolling her eyes, Harlequin motioned for him to follow her, and unlocked the room door, slipping silently out into the corridor and into the nearest elevator.

She pressed the button for the lobby. The elevator went down.

Her job of cleaning this place up was going to get easier in ten to twenty minutes.

The doors slid open, and she cautiously poked her head out. The lobby was completely empty. The other Dead Children were probably on the other levels. Walking behind the receptionist desk, she found the scabbard for Eve's sword, strapped it to her right thigh, sliding the katana in.

Harlequin and Sebastian strode outside, and kept on walking until they were almost on the road, the sun filtering through the clouds. Seth's car was gone, and no doubt with Ashlei and Glassier in the tow.

Fishing her phone out of her pocket, the girl checked the time. Just in time for a cup of tea and a sandwich if Sebastian fancied it. She dialed a number she'd bothered to dig up, placing the phone to her ear.

"Hello?" went a familiar voice on the other end of the line.

"Hello, Silver," she answered.

"Harlequin?!"

"I've got a job for the Yard. The Dead Children. Ever heard of them?"

"…Rumors…" DI Lestrade replied, sounding wary.

"Found them. Look, I'll give you the address."

"Aren't you meant to be a… bad guy…?"

"I don't like them. But I'm giving you the messy task of cleaning up after them."

"Aha."

Silence for a moment. Neither had any idea what to say. It was awkward to talk to someone when the last time you saw them you had kissed and stabbed them all at once.

She gave him the address, adding, "So, how about a drink, Silver? I know somewhere our privacy will be respected-"

The Reflection burst into flames. It was so sudden, as though someone had flicked a switch. The flames rose higher, and she could hear people screaming from inside. A body came crashing through the window on the top floor, landing directly in front of her with a splat.

She didn't bother to gaze down at the unfortunate sod.

"What the bloody hell was that?!" Lestrade demanded.

"I… It just caught fire…"

"The Yard is going to be there in ten minutes I suppose. So you better get the hell out of there before I decide to shackle you and throw you in the back of my car."

"Sure thing, Silver."

Hanging up, she and the sniper stared in silent awe and amazement as the hotel burned, flames leaping high into the air. Already, she could hear sirens blaring not too far away and coming closer to her location.

"Let's scram," she said, tugging her companion's arm, and walking briskly away. Turning the corner, they broke into a run, and Harlequin laughed, hysterically.

She had a sword, she had her sniper, she had her youth, and she had a hallucination of her father.

She was a lucky girl, all things considered.


	9. Chapter 7

~That night~

Harlequin sat in the restaurant, at a table by the window. She'd tried to dress up for this occasion: A strapless black number that reached a little above her knees and stilettoes. She'd carefully applied lipstick and mascara, using what little makeup she kept in the cabinets in the bathroom.

It could've been called a date, except it wasn't really one.

The restaurant was dimly-lit, and all the tables had their own candle. Hers was going strong, and she was proud of it.

She'd been waiting for half an hour now.

The waiters were beginning to look at her, as though wondering why a sixteen-year old girl would be waiting so long for her date. Most would have flounced off in a huff by now, but not her. No way.

The door opened, a customer stepped inside. She watched him survey the tables full of other couples, then his gaze found her. He made his way over, cleared his throat.

"Excuse me, miss. Seeing as the other tables are full, may I join you?" Lestrade enquired, the epitome of politeness in a coat and a crisp white shirt.

She stifled a giggle and nodded. He couldn't recognize her after three years and a light coat of makeup.

_What a dumbass. I got all dolled up for him and he doesn't even _know_ it's me._

The waiter came by, and she ordered lasagna and a glass of the finest wine. He frowned at the menu for a moment before asking for a plate of spaghetti and meatballs with whatever drink seemed to go best with the dish.

The waiter left to bring their orders to the kitchen. Awkwardness descended upon them like locusts.

Harlequin smiled, tentatively, and Lestrade smiled back.

"This is my favorite Italian restaurant," the detective inspector explained, and she nodded.

That was why she had bothered to come here in the first place. Three years of watching him and John had not been totally for nothing.

"I know, Silver. I know," she replied, and the moment she did, he jerked back in his chair.

"Quin. Uh, hello."

"Did you clear up the business in the hotel?"

"Everyone was dead by the time we got there, or dying."

"Three more are missing. I'm going after them, for personal reasons."

"I can arrest you here and now."

"But you won't."

"I have every right."

Harlequin shrugged. "Yeah, true. Yet I trust you not to."

"Why are you dressed up for? Got a date with some poor bloke you're probably going to end up killing?" Lestrade quizzed, and she laughed.

"No, just you. I've missed playing cat-and-mouse."

"_Me_?" Disbelief.

"Yep." She smiled.

"Are you trying to kill me or flirt with me?"

"Flirt."

His face went pale. Disgust flashed in his eyes for a minute, replaced by sheer curiosity.

She was like an exotic and rare flower that he was itching to pluck and examine. He wanted to know what exactly what the fuck was running through that pretty head of hers. It was shown all too clearly in his eyes.

_Come and see._

~Later~

She pulled him down the road, laughing at something he'd said. About fraternizing with the enemy.

"I'm not your enemy, silly," she explained.

"You're the closest equivalent."

"Do you want to know where we're going? Back to my place."

"This is sick. Why am I even following you home?"

"What's so sick about inviting someone in for a late cuppa?"

"…" Lestrade had no answer to that, and both of them knew it.

Reaching the front door of her flat, Harlequin opened it and they went upstairs. Her flat was empty. She'd told Sebastian she was sorry, but he had to clear out for a while. So he'd gone to James's house without a complaint. Her uncle seemed like such a softie that it made her want to throw up.

So much for being a soldier. All that army shit must've rubbed off him after his discharge.

"Make yourself at home," Harlequin told the silver-haired man, motioning to the sofa. Going into the kitchen, she put the kettle on, prepared a tea tray, and waited for the water to boil.

"It's kind of homey," she heard him comment.

"Thanks."

Once the water had boiled, she took a packet from one of the numerous jars that held spices and things on the counter, and poured it into and onto Lestrade's tea cup. Then she merely added tea into both the cups, and carried the whole tray out into the living room, setting it down on the coffee table. Taking her cup, she sat cross-legged on the floor in front of him, watching the detective inspector took his cup of tea and raise it to his lips.

Not like he'd drink it or anything.

She was still the daughter of the consulting criminal, and he was still a detective inspector.

Nothing had changed between them.

The only thing was that she was all grown-up and he was curious to find out exactly _what_ growing up meant for her.

Nothing at all, in fact. So she was growing up. Her body could be used to lure male targets and take them down close and personal-like.

Another new tactic, that was all it meant.

But, naturally, the bastard had no idea.

She _almost_ pitied his ignorance.

Lestrade placed his teacup back down on the tray. The liquid was untouched, she could see.

"Might be poisoned."

"Smart man," she praised, sipping her own tea, taking her time with it.

"What do you want from me?"

"What do _you_ want from me, Silver? You could've said no to my invitation to come up. But you didn't."

"I was curious," he admitted. "To see how you lived."

"You expected to see corpses everywhere, blood on the floor? I never bring my work home, and that's a rule."

"Was the tea _really_ poisoned?"

"Of course it was. Though I wouldn't say _poisoned_…"

A frown flitted across his face and settled there. He raised his hand. She knew what he was feeling: A slight numbness, maybe a tingle or two.

"I didn't drink the tea. What the fuck did you do?" A slur to his voice. Whatever she'd placed in and on the cup was kicking in.

_That was fast._

"I didn't just poison the tea: I poisoned the entire _cup_."

"Oh… Fuck."

"Don't worry, Silver. It'll only put you to sleep for four to six hours at the most. It's more of a sleeping draught, see? I'll make sure you're safe."

Lestrade's eyes were growing glassy and starting to close. His breathing slowed. A curse was breathed out in her general direction and she giggled as he tried to stand.

"Fuck you…" he wheezed, the last words he ever said before he let his legs buckle and collapsed in a heap.

Harlequin put her ear to his chest. His heart was still beating. Wonderful.

All she had to do was to play at being a surgeon or a tattoo artist.

Pulling the DI's body so that he lay straight, Harlequin slid her knife out of her pocket, and put it between her teeth. Her hands went to the buttons of his shirt, pushing away the coat.

Soon, Molly Hooper and Greg Lestrade could form some sort of fan club, because they were going to be sporting the exact same tattoos.

~An hour later~

She hung up. Harlequin had just finished her call with Sebastian, telling him to get his ass back to the flat and help her lug the unconscious DI somewhere to leave as a present for Sherlock.

The doorstep of 221B was a likely candidate.

The consulting detective would surely go back once in a while to go forlornly at the flat, wishing to reveal himself to John. But he couldn't. And Harlequin had to wait until John was at work to deposit the body.

The man still lay on the floor. She had the sense (or was it sentiment) to cover him with a blanket. Red patches stained the covers, but she didn't mind. Blood was blood.

"What's your next move?"

Jim Moriarty came into the living room via the kitchen, moving like a tiger stalking its prey.

"Actually, I got as far as dumping Silver at 221B in the wee hours of the morning," Harlequin told him, sheepishly.

A flash of annoyance. He rolled his eyes. "Haven't I taught you better than that?"

Of course. There weren't any of his skills that he'd decided not to pass on to her. But this was a whole new thing for her.

"You never taught me how to handle it if your web just fell to pieces," she retorted, crossing her arms.

"A minor setback. You can be a smart little bitch when you want to. Improvise."

_Improvise? _

"And you can be a pretty cunning bastard."

"Why, thank you." A grin of delight at being complimented lit up his face.

"Now leave me the _fuck_ alone to think," Harlequin growled, and the smile dropped instantly. Jim looked down at her for a heartbeat or two. His leg snaked out, giving her a swift kick that sent her face-forward onto the carpet, her legs still crossed.

"Okay, I'll leave you the fuck alone." The consulting criminal's voice practically _oozed_ venom and displeasure. When she righted herself, she discovered that he'd left in a hissy fit.

Not that she cared about the feelings of her hallucinations, even if it was one of her father.

Gods, waiting for Sebastian was boring. Slight regret: She shouldn't have banished Jim. He made a good person to chat to.

Harlequin glanced at Lestrade, and stifled a yawn, raising her hand to her mouth. Sleep beckoned for her from a distance, but she had to stay awake until Sebastian came, and plan her next moves.

_Dump the body, email Sherlock, wait for John to come home, tattoo John, wait for Glassier to seek me out, kill him, kill Natalia, kill James, be happy._

Her plan in a nutshell was that, more or less.

Her eyes closed for a brief moment, then snapped open.

_No rest for the wicked, _she reminded herself, sternly.

Getting to her feet, Harlequin walked to the kitchen, intending to grab a drink, when she saw Jim sitting at the counter in the darkness, head in his hands.

"Didn't I tell you to fuck off?" she quizzed, but there was no real anger in her voice.

The man raised his head, gazing directly at her. "Yes. Yes, you did. I chose not to."

"I can see that." An uncomfortable pause. "Would you like a drink?"

"Sounds good."

She wandered to the fridge, opened it and peered inside. Nothing. Shutting it, she opened the cabinet under the sink and pulled out a bottle of liquor, one of the sniper's last bottles.

Her father did not scold her when she brought the bottle to the table, seating herself next to him. Perhaps his 'no- alcohol' rule was an exception at certain times. Unscrewing the cap, Harlequin passed the bottle to him for a first taste. The consulting criminal drank deep, handing her the bottle. Wiping the rim on the edge of her dress, she took a swig. The liquid burned going down her throat. Not like she gave a fuck about that.

"Why so glum?" she asked, sliding the bottle to him.

"Me? Glum?" he repeated, amazed. "_Never_. Now mind your own fucking business."

"How shall I wrap up this game?"

"With style. Something unforgettable."

"I need your expertise in this field."

"Use your head." He picked up the bottle, staring at the liquid sloshing inside. "Use your head."

Jim smashed it over her head, glass shards raining down on her, liquor drenching her.

"You fucker! What the bloody hell was _that _for?" she growled, angrily, pounding his shoulder.

From outside, Harlequin heard the stairs creak. Sebastian, undoubtedly. Or Glassier and Seth with Ashlei in the tow. Maybe even Natalia and James.

Anything was possible.

"I'll give you a little tip," the consulting criminal said, getting up and going behind her, idly flicking a strand of wet hair. "Deliver the body in a box to the flat when John's there in the morning. Invite yourself in, don't speak to him. Let him badger you with questions, then tell him that he was going to have to open the box. He'll open the box. His back will be to you. Stab him. I'll leave the rest to you."

"Thanks," she muttered, and glanced up at him. Or where he _had_ been, because the obsidian-eyed man had simply disappeared into thin air. Quickly, she went to the living room, and grabbed her katana from where it lay in its scabbard, under her coffee table.

The door opened. Harlequin nodded at Sebastian. "Hey, Seb."

"What's with the…?" the sniper asked, indicating her wet form.

She shot him a look which told him to shut it and told him her (Jim's actually, but she'd never admit to taking instructions from a hallucination) big plan to kill Sherlock Holmes once and for all.

~The next morning~

Baker Street was quiet. That was normal, since it was little over six in the morning, and the sun was barely up.

Erryl had driven the two of them there, even agreeing to letting them shove the wooden box in the backseat. All that without question. All that because Harlequin hadn't hesitated to flirt with him and generally make him lust after her.

Not that many men did that. Only those desperate and foolish enough.

They parked in front of the flat, and Harlequin and Sebastian got out, followed by Erryl.

Pointing at the box, the girl beckoned to them as she approached the door, pressing the buzzer.

Footsteps, slow and steady. The door opened to reveal an old woman with light-colored hair and a sweet smile dressed in a purple blouse.

"Hello, dear. What can I do for you?"

"Mrs. Hudson, I presume. Delivery for a certain Dr. Watson," she replied, jerking her thumb at the two men bearing the wooden box behind her. She hoped the sleeping draught wouldn't wear off anytime soon and that the landlady wouldn't notice the air holes.

"Oh, alright. Bring it up. He'll be having his breakfast though, might not want to be bothered…" Mrs. Hudson said, standing aside and giving them a wide berth.

Erryl and Sebastian bore the wooden box down the hallway, up the stairs, all the way to the door of John Watson's flat. Harlequin peered round the doorway. The army doctor was seated at the dining table, reading the papers and buttering his toast at the same time. She noted that he was wearing a nice dark beige jumper with brown stripes.

He hadn't noticed them.

At her signal, the chauffer and the sniper followed her inside, and set the box down in the center of the living room.

"What the hell is this?!"

So he _had_ noticed them.

Sebastian gripped Erryl's arm, steering him out of the room. The door banged shut behind them.

Harlequin dragged her gaze to meet the army doctor's. A small smile flickered to life.

"Johnny boy. Long time no see, hmm?"

"I thought you weren't going to bother us. The last time I saw you, you fucking _shot_ me."

"So did you. I'm clearly not kicking up a fuss as you can see."

"What do you want now?!"

She opted not to reply, leaning over the table and snatching a piece of toast from his plate. Nibbling at it, the girl watched John stand and, keeping his eyes on her the whole time, walk over to inspect the box. She finished her toast, wiping her fingers on her jeans.

_Yum._

"It's a bomb, isn't it?" John said.

"Oh, don't be so unimaginative. If it was a bomb I'd be long gone," Harlequin responded, rolling her eyes.

"Air holes…" He looked at her, puzzled. "You'd only have air holes if someone was in there… someone alive…"

"Go on." She was delighted. So three years had sharpened his thinking skills. She was proud of him, the way a lioness was proud of the way a deer had raised their young, juicy and tender.

Her hands were itching to do it.

_Patience_, she chided herself. _All in good time, Quin. All in good time. _

"Someone. Who. I know you, you wouldn't pick any random fellow to stuff in a box and bring to me. And why me? I heard Molly's in hospital. That must've been you."

"I want to catch a dead man's attention, Johnny boy."

"I'm not dead."

"Not _yet_," she corrected.

"Mrs. Hudson is downstairs. Mycroft… You'd be insane. He has bodyguards constantly around him. You can't have gotten Lestrade. I just saw him yesterday."

"Keep going."

"Mrs. Hudson!" John hollered, and the landlady came up the stairs, into the flat.

"Yes, dear?" she enquired.

"Can you do me a favor and get a crowbar? We can't seem to get this box open without one."

"Just this once: I'm not your housekeeper." Mrs. Hudson went back down to get the item the army doctor had requested. Harlequin perched herself on the box, swinging her legs.

"I'm in no mood for guessing games. Who is in the fucking box?"

"Check it out yourself, you lazy bastard. It's right here in front of you."

"I can call the Yard and have you arrested in two minutes," he threatened.

"And in those few minutes, I'd either be gone or you'd be dead. Possibly both."

They were there for a bit, thoughts whirring. The landlady came back upstairs and handed John a crowbar.

"Here you go."

"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson."

"What did you order? It's such a big box."

"Um…" John faltered, Harlequin cut in.

"The point being he can't remember, ma'am. So we're trying to open it so he can see," she explained.

"Ooh." Satisfied, Mrs. Hudson left, shutting the door behind her.

Harlequin hopped off the box, and John used the crowbar and attempted to pry the lid of the wooden box open. It was tough: She'd used perhaps too many nails to keep it shut and ensure that, in any event of the sleeping draught wearing off faster than it should, the detective inspector could not escape.

With a bit of straining and strength, John got the last of the nails out, and dropped the crowbar on the floor, shifting the lid aside.

His pupils dilated, his jaw dropped, he took a step back. In horror, in wonder that anyone could be that _twisted_.

DI Lestrade lay in the box, blanket still around him, eyes shut, chest barely moving, extremely pale from the blood loss.

"Oh. My. Fucking. God. What the hell did you do?!" John half shrieked, reaching over to check the silver-haired man's pulse.

Harlequin didn't reply, flashing him a wicked grin. Her knife was suddenly in her hand, gripped tightly.

He had let his guard down to check on his friend. And this was the price to pay.

She lunged at him, sinking the blade into his side. Blood splattered the floor. John stiffened, gurgled a bit, and slumped over the box, one hand still around Lestrade's wrist.

Eyes wide.

"Fucking… little bitch…" the army doctor managed to get out, his head angled to stare up at her.

Someone was running upstairs. She could hear that person's footsteps, their breath coming out in short gasps.

"I heard some scuffling- Oh dear!" Mrs. Hudson said, appearing at the doorway of the flat, eyes wide, looking horrified.

"Don't you _dare_ lay a finger on her," John growled, voice weak.

Harlequin ignored him, took a step towards the woman, knife dripping with blood. She stopped after a few steps, not because Mrs. Hudson was backing away, but because she saw Sebastian behind the landlady, a tall and foreboding figure.

The sniper's arms encircled her neck, she had barely time to cry out in surprise before he had her in a chokehold, forcing the air out of her lungs.

After a few seconds of pointless struggling, the woman went limp. The sniper carried her into the living room and deposited her on the sofa.

John was watching her with hateful eyes, doing his best to intimidate her. How adorable.

Harlequin bent down, whispering in his ear, "Sleep tight, Johnny boy. It'll only hurt for a few minutes."

His mouth moved silently, struggling to form words. None came out. Her hands slipped into his pants pocket, drawing out his phone. Straightening up, she nodded at Sebastian, giving him the green light. The sniper did to the army doctor what he had done to Mrs. Hudson while the girl scrolled through his list of contacts.

_Sherlock…. Sherlock… Ah, there we are._

She pressed the 'call' button. The line began to ring.

Seconds ticked by in the silent flat.

Someone picked up but didn't speak.

"Come down to 221B and pick up your presents, you naughty boy," Harlequin said. "I've got about three, all hand-picked."

The line went dead the instant she finished talking. Sherlock was on his way, and with vengeance on his mind.

"Come on, Seb. We're getting the fuck out of here."

"What about Sherlock?"

"I'm going to make _him_ come to _us_."

"Ah. Smart, Boss."

"Don't call me that," she snapped, but felt pleased all the same.

He grinned, surveying the fallen bodies around the flat. All breathing, all hurt. Perfect in every sense. Harlequin pushed John aside so that the army doctor fell onto his back, and leant over the wooden box containing the very still body of the detective inspector.

She checked his pulse: Weak, but it was there. He looked like he'd stopped bleeding from the cuts she'd inflicted.

"Come on, we're going."

"Right."

The sniper led the way back downstairs, outside to where Erryl was waiting inside the car, engine running.

They got in.

"Back to my flat," Harlequin ordered, and the chauffer nodded, pulling out into the road.

They began to drive.

_My game is nearly over. That's right, Sherlock, I will do what it takes to bring you down, you little shit._


	10. Hiatus

**Note:**

Due to the fact that my finals are coming up, I guess I'm extending my hiatus. Sorry about that. I shall be back to writing as soon as possible.

Thanks ^^


	11. Chapter 8

Sebastian and Harlequin sat in the backseat of the car with the tinted windows that Erryl was currently driving, quietly giggling over their shenanigans at 221B.

The radio was blaring music. Outside, there was no traffic, a bonus. It was a perfect, ridiculously sunny morning. Usually it aggravated her, but today it was almost _magical._

Then she glanced out of the window, still giggling. Her laughter dried instantly. This was not the route back to her flat. She knew every single route in London that led back home, and this was _definitely_ not one of them.

But she kept her mouth shut. Best not say anything. Easily slipping the smile back on her face, she leant against the sniper.

"So we'll be waiting for Sherlock. Might not be a long time. Got a plan?" he asked her.

"I never make plans properly. Halfway through they all fall to pieces," she responded. They giggled some more at that.

"Maybe this will be the lucky one."

The car abruptly pulled up beside a walled-up piece of land, the only entrance in the form of an iron gate.

_The graveyard...? _Harlequin wondered, puzzled. This time she frowned quite openly.

"Hey, Erryl, why are we stopping here?"

The driver ran a hand through his flame-red hair and cracked his neck, looking back at her. He grinned. "A pit-stop first before I get you two back home. No problem with that, eh?"

"Oh." She relaxed. "That's fine."

"I knew you wouldn't mind." The chauffer continued talking. "I look at you sometimes, I wonder if you and Mister over there have a thing."

"I can hear you, dumbass," Sebastian growled, but the girl shushed him. She felt amused.

"A thing? Please, explain."

"It's a professional relationship to the outside eyes, but in here you're all tee-hee and lovey-dovey, if that term can be used."

"So you're saying that laughing with people means you are romantically involved with them?" She raised an eyebrow, watched his face grow red to the extent that it matched the color of his hair.

"I-it's not that… It's that… Do you have a thing or not?!" Erryl blurted out.

She looked at Sebastian, and saw that the sniper was sitting straight, arms crossed, wearing the best poker face she'd ever seen.

A confused laugh bubbled up her throat.

_Wait a fucking moment. Why am I confused?! The answer is obviously no. Seb and I? We don't have a thing… _

That was a stupid question. Yet also extremely puzzling now that Erryl had unknowingly succeeded in confuzzling her.

Her family's relationship with one Sebastian Moran was always pretty straight-forward when she was growing up, especially when the four of them formed some kind of dysfunctional family living under the same goddamn insane roof.

Her mother hated her, hate-loved her father, hated Sebastian.

Her father hated her mother, hate-loved her (was that even possible?), and formed a professional relationship with the sniper. Employer-employee. That was it.

Jim gave the orders, Sebastian carried them out. Simple.

And Harlequin. She hated her mother, hate-loved her father, and then there was the sniper.

When she was growing up, he taught her how to be the ultimate assassin. He followed her when her father ordered him to move with her to London. He patched her up, she patched him up. They shared victories and losses and went at each other with claw and tooth when the opportunity arose.

"We're comrades," she decided firmly, telling Erryl.

"You sure there's no hidden feelings there?" the red-head persisted, and she pulled her lips up and snarled at him.

Snickering, he turned back to face the front just as the door of the passenger seat opened, and Natalia slid in, shutting the door behind her.

The assassin was clad in a body-hugging black jumpsuit, wearing a black armband over her right arm. Her lips were pulled into a wistful smile. She was thinking.

The chauffer began driving, turning the radio off. Silence, deafening, beautiful silence filled the vehicle.

"It's so fragile, is it not, Miss Moriarty? The human body, that is," the brown-haired woman began talking, softly. "A twist, a snap, and that's it. You're dead. How convenient."

Harlequin snorted, rolling her eyes. Utter shit.

The rest of the drive included listening to the assassin ruminate about life and death, about the human soul and fragility.

Pretentious claptrap, the lot of it.

At long last, Erryl pulled up outside her flat.

His voice was warm. "Out you go. Have a nice day."

"Thanks," she forced herself to say, getting out, Sebastian behind her.

The two of them went upstairs into their flat and the girl told the sniper what to do, retrieving a sling bag from her toy chest and pressing it into his hands. The man argued, but she was firm about the commands issued.

"Stay safe. Quin, this is not John you're dealing with. Sherlock is on a different level altogether," Sebastian reminded her, concern etched into the lines on his face.

It was _this_ close from being touching, really. "I can take on a man who doesn't give a fuck about our solar system," she replied, shrugging.

"Better be sure about that little fact."

"Just fucking go already."

She pointed to the door, and he dutifully made his exit. Harlequin sat on the sofa, assuming an aura of mystery and badass-ness.

Jim Moriarty walked in from the open front door, hands in his pockets, obsidian eyes full of glee.

"Finally using the present I gave you before Sherlock's supposed death, I see. Atta girl," the consulting criminal said, giving her a playful slap on the face.

"I guessed it comes in handy. Are you going to be here for the final show-down?"

"Sure I am. I want to see if you succeed or fail."

The door downstairs opened, and she could hear footsteps. Father and daughter looked at each other.

Jim sighed. "Good luck. I'll see you in hell, eh?"

"Don't count on it," Harlequin muttered.

He loped away, disappearing into the darkness just as the door of her flat opened, and the consulting detective strode in, coat flapping around him, face impassive, yet she could sense the fury boiling inside his worthless, mortal shell.

"Good afternoon, Sherly."

"Harlequin." He sat down on the armchair across from her without invitation. She didn't really give a shit. "You injured my friends."

"Yes, and I do not regret a single move."

"You're going to pay."

"With what, my blood?" She laughed. "No way."

He smirked at her. A bulge in his pocket: A gun, how predictable. Those mesmerizing eyes gazed into hers, and she searched them for emotion. The usual fare, she supposed, of ice cold rage and determination.

"Pull out that gun and you're friends deaths will be on _your_ head," she informed the consulting detective.

The smirk faded. "I do not understand."

"I think you do. You see, Seb is currently in the hospital, and he has a bag with him. In that bag is a bomb."

Eyes widening by a fraction, unnoticeable to few. But she saw it all. She could practically see the thoughts rushing to Sherlock's head.

"The force of the blast would kill him too," the dark-haired man reminded her.

_Fucking hell._

That was the one little fact she'd so conveniently overlooked.

That stupid smile was back on his face. He leant back in the armchair, surveying her. "Would you risk everything by losing your faithful sniper?"

"I would," she said, jutting out her chin.

Which was a lie itself. Harlequin would rather lose an eye than lose the only person she had left. Well, the only _real_ person if she excluded her hallucination of a father.

"But," she continued. "Would _you_ risk losing all the people you care about in one go?"

There. They were on equal ground now, gazing at each other with mirrored poker faces.

"Shoot me. I dare you." She giggled.

Painfully slow, Sherlock took the gun out of his pocket, placing it on his knee, angled away from her. Her phone beeped, she took it out and opened the message.

_All fired up, Boss. This baby looks like it's going to cause one hell of an explosion. Just give the word when needed.- SM _

She looked up at the man opposite her. Took a deep breath.

"It's boring, this game, it's getting boring," Sherlock grumbled.

Harlequin extended a hand, and he looked on as she touched his knee. "I know. I can end it."

"I want a better game. Moriarty was a finer opponent than you."

He was buying time, trying to keep her occupied. She knew it, but played along.

_Can I just tell Seb to pull out his gun and start shooting instead of detonating the bomb?_

"Jim won, but the price was his life. Me? I'll win _and_ reap the rewards in all their splendor and glory," she replied.

"I'd like to see that."

"You'd be dead by then."

"Aha. That minor setback."

Her hand pulled back, strayed to her phone, stroking the screen. She bit her lip, attempted a cocky grin, failed, and frowned.

"Give me a good reason why I should call Seb off."

"I have been actually paid to find out your location and pull Moriarty's criminal web apart," Sherlock explained, dropping the bombshell.

Her jaw did not drop. It clenched.

"Who, how, and _why_," Harlequin demanded.

"After the Fall, my first impression was that I had to burn his kingdom down. Unfortunately, I sorely lacked in information. But brother Mycroft knew who exactly to put me in touch with: An assassin who was once in that kingdom but long since left to free-lance. I told her my purpose, she took me to her new employer. We talked, agreed on things. This employer of hers sent the assassin out scouting, digging for information. She came back with the jackpot, really. Her employer and I settled on this: I'd distract you, throw you off course with all the emails, and in turn, he'd arrange all the necessary things to be done. Also, _I_ was the one who was given the task of tearing the empire into little pieces."

"Who-"she began to ask, but the consulting detective held up a hand to shush her.

"Why: My reason is that Moriarty is a criminal, the most dangerous person to trifle with, and so are his associates. The employer's reason I have no idea. Who: I cannot tell you."

"Why not?!" Harlequin demanded, frowning.

"You're not the only one with hired guns ready at St. Bart's."

That kind of stunned her. Also angered her. She was _unique_. No dumbass was about to steal her style. Her phone beeped again, and she looked at the message:

_Boss, I'm waiting… -SM _

"Go on, blow up the hospital and lose the only loyal person you have."

_He thinks I'll back down._

Harlequin bit her lip, nodding slowly. Already an unstable plan was forming in her mind.

"I…" The words were reluctantly dragged out of her mouth. "… Need your help…"

The consulting detective raised an eyebrow. "_My_ help?"

"I won't blow up the hospital. I need to see _who_ I'm up against."

He didn't reply immediately; They sat in silence.

Taking her phone, she texted Sebastian:

_Stand down. Sherlock and I will be there in a bit. –HM _

_SHERLOCK?! –SM_

Disbelief in all eight screaming letters. She completely ignored it. Standing up, Harlequin flashed Sherlock a grin. "Let's kick some ass, my temporary ally."

~At St. Bart's~

The hospital was everything a hospital was meant to be: Clean, white, sterile, packed with people, and smelling like disinfectant. The two of them went down one of the numerous corridors, still slightly wary of each other. This uneasy truce seemed so strange: Was she not trying to kill the man beside her?

"Boss!" It was Sebastian, hurrying towards them from the opposite end of the corridor. The sling bag containing the bomb was slung casually over his shoulder. His brow furrowed at the sight of the dark-haired man with the red scarf.

"Relax Seb: It's a truce," Harlequin sighed, rolling her eyes.

"Why the fuck is _he_ here?" the sniper growled.

"Won't tell me who hired him. The employer's hired guns are here. We're going to kill them."

"Aha."

She glanced at Sherlock. "We'll check your friends' rooms first."

"Logical enough."

The consulting detective led the way, going to the one of the doors. Opening it, they peered inside. It was empty except for the still form of Mrs. Hudson on the bed. No assassins, hired guns. Out of the corner of her eye, Harlequin saw Sherlock's jaw clench.

The next door: Molly Hooper, apparently asleep. Her arms were bare, above the blanket, the words 'Get Sherlock' clearly visible. Other than that she looked remarkably well.

And the third door: DI Lestrade, who was motionless. She thought she saw him twitch the moment she poked her head round the doorframe.

The last door: It _had_ to be filled with assassins armed to the teeth. She was sure of it. They went in. A groan of disappointment escaped Sebastian's mouth. Harlequin elbowed him in the ribs as a way of telling him to shut up.

John Watson –like the rest of the people they'd checked on- was not awake, or else pretending to be. His mouth was a firm line, his eyebrows drawn down. Having troubled dreams, the girl guessed. Sherlock approached the bed, staring at his best friend.

She watched emotion seep into his eyes, then disappear when the door swung open and a nurse came in, wheeling a trolley laden with various medicines.

"Your friend?" the nurse asked, motioning to John. They nodded, and she smiled. Her eyes were bright as she surveyed the medicines, deciding which would be suitable for the army doctor. _Too _bright. Harlequin wanted to point it out, but shrugged it off.

"I'm going to check the other rooms again," Sherlock announced, sweeping out of the room. Sebastian followed him at Harlequin's signal, leaving her alone with this strange nurse. Her hand plunged into her pocket, fingers wrapping around the hilt of her knife.

"Friends are such blind, loyal creatures," the nurse continued talking, taking a syringe filled with colorless liquid and testing it. "Follow you into Hell if they could."

"True…" the girl replied, uncomfortably.

"You aren't Dr. Watson's friend. You tried to kill him."

The knife was out of her pocket in an instant.

"Who the fuck hired you?!" Harlequin snarled, pointing the knife at the nurse- assassin.

Her answer was to lunge at John, attempting to inject him with whatever foul poison in the syringe. The girl would have gladly let the poor sod be killed.

But Sherlock was there, and she would most probably be killed by him.

Plus, she sort of promised not to touch John, or any of the others, as long as they had their truce.

So Harlequin flew at the assassin and stabbed her. Just once, to the side of the neck. It appeared to do the trick: The assassin squealed, the syringe falling from her fingers, and wheeled around, blood gushing from her wound, staining her crisp white uniform. The girl waited; Waited until the assassin was truly lying dead on the ground.

Then she picked up the syringe and pocketed it, wondering if she should wake John up.

Probably not a good idea.

Stepping out of the room, Harlequin shut the door behind her, taking a deep breath. She wiped her knife on the edge of her T-shirt, brushed the hair out of her eyes. Moving from her spot would merely give another assassin the opportunity to slip in and finish the job.

Finally, the others came back. They didn't look as though they'd killed anyone. She held up the syringe. "John was the first target. I killed the nurse by the way. Didn't get her employer's goddamn waste."

"Oh, he's a clever one, the employer. Clever, but not as clever as he'd like to think," the dark-haired man said, chuckling.

"One assassin is stupid. I expected _more_," Sebastian complained.

"There _are _more. He threatened me with at least four highly-trained killers."

"Maybe they're scattered," she suggested.

That was when someone wolf-whistled at her, and Harlequin whirled around to glare at whichever pervert it was.

It was followed by a giggle that made her blood freeze. Her eyes scanned the corridor.

_No, no way,_ she thought. _Not him._

A member of the Dead Children was strolling up to them, hands in his pockets, and the sniper and the girl knew his name well.

Seth.

"One, two, Seth Kester's going to get you!" the lunatic sung it to the tune of a children's song.

Sebastian looked at Harlequin, who in turn looked at Sherlock, who returned her gaze.

"Lure him outside if you can, and let's split," Harlequin told them. "If he's here, I bet Glassier and Ashlei are here too. And baying for our blood."

The consulting detective moved first, then the sniper. The girl waited until she could see the approaching man's toad-green eyes. Then she stuck up her middle finger and ran, yelling, "Kiss my ass, fucker!"

Not her wittiest taunt, but it would do.

Harlequin ran, Seth suddenly hard on her heels, dodging patients and doctors and nurses and trolleys and all manner of obstacles. Adrenaline flooded her veins, acidic and as sweet as ambrosia on her tongue.

Letting out a whoop of exhilaration, she rounded a corner and managed to gasp out a laugh in between breaths for air.

_I'm starting to enjoy this._

Looking over her shoulder, she was happy to see that her pursuer was sweating profusely and red with anger. His lips twisted into a snarl.

She blew a raspberry at him, only to turn back to see the trolley coming straight for her.

She slammed into the metal thing, going over it and landing on her stomach with a loud and obviously painful thud.

The nurse pushing the trolley started apologizing, but all Harlequin did was pull herself up and keep on running. The distance between her and Seth was rapidly closing. Her stomach hurt, yet she drove herself to her limits, struggling to keep out of reach.

_This isn't a good idea._

Lowering her head, she ran on, heading for the lobby. Once she reached there, she whirled around and performed a spectacular high-kick that connected with Seth's jaw. People shrieked as he staggered back, spitting blood. His eyes glinted dangerously.

"Who hired you?" Harlequin asked, as they circled each other. Her palms were sweaty, and the knife kept slipping from her grasp.

"I'd tell you but I'd have to kill you!" Seth giggled.

"Kill me then."

"Oh, I _will._"

They went at each other with bared teeth and flashing steel. Her first blow was to Seth's stomach, driving the hilt of her blade hard enough so as to make him double-up, gasping.

"Come on and tell me, I haven't got all day," she whined, as her straightened up and tried to slash her. Harlequin danced back, then parried with a kick that turned into a step forward, and she pressed her knife to his throat.

Seth froze. "I'm just a pawn. Don't know anyone."

She applied pressure, watching beads of blood roll down his flesh. The hospital was quiet, their horrified audience watching their frozen tableau.

"Oh, _do_ stop fooling about, you two. This is serious business here," someone drawled, and her eyes flicked to the side to see Glassier Valentine stroll in, Sherlock's limp body thrown over his shoulder like a life-sized doll. Blood dribbled from the consulting detective's lips and nose, dripping onto the ground.

Behind him, Ashlei hummed happily, sucking on what appeared to be a lollipop. There was no sign of Sebastian. So either he was dead or had hidden and was waiting to swoop in and save the day like some dumbass hero.

"Hi!" Ashlei waved, giggling. "Daddy's going to kill Mr. Holmes if you don't step away from Seth there."

"Whatever," Harlequin said, not moving.

And then she began to _really_ think about the consequences of Sherlock being dead.

For starters, his brother and the whole Scotland Yard would be after her.

_Fuck this shit. _

Ever so slowly, she stepped back from Seth and tossed her blade onto the floor. Held her hands up in a surrender gesture.

"Tell me who is behind all this," she demanded.

"You aren't exactly in the ideal position to ask," Glassier shot back, dumping Sherlock unceremoniously on the ground. "Look, if it's any comfort, I'll make your death quick."

"What a gentleman." Harlequin offered him a grin, which he returned.

Ashlei tugged her father's hand. "Daddy, can I ask Seth to kill her?"

A single, curt nod. The girl clapped, and gave Seth a look. Harlequin stood there, like a statue, extremely still.

In here mind, she was screaming Sebastian's name.

_Goddamnit, Seb, bring the fucking bomb and blow up this goddamn place. Or come in and shoot them. _

Seth pushed her forward, arranging her hands so that they were clenched behind her back. Licking his knife, letting his saliva run down its surface, he made a thoughtful sound, as though choosing in which style to kill her.

Finally, Seth made up his mind. Raising his arm behind, he closed an eye and stuck out his tongue, taking aim, knife in hand.

_Sebastian Moran, I am going to fucking haunt you,_ Harlequin promised, trying to quell the rising panic bubbling up inside of her.

She scanned the room, looked at each patient or staff there, searching for someone, _anyone_ to step up.

And help her.

But everyone was frozen with fear, unable to do anything but watch. So she looked straight at Seth, motioned for him to continue.

The madman threw the knife, and it flew across the small space between them almost effortlessly.

Just as it was about to reach her, Harlequin did the whole Matrix thing, bending backwards, forcing her body down. Her eyes widened as she let the knife sail over her and continue its path towards the father and daughter.

"Daddy!" she heard Ashlei shriek. Heard a dull thunk as the lollipop fell to the ground. Heard the splatter of blood on the ground, like gentle rainfall.

Heard someone hit the ground, _hard_.

Harlequin let her legs give way, and collapsed, just as Sebastian Moran sauntered casually into view, holding his gun and pointing it at Seth.

Blood was smeared across his face. His eyes flicked from her, to Sherlock, to Seth, to the Valentines.

"I… I didn't mean…" the madman with green eyes was saying, as he made his way past Harlequin, ignoring her completely. "It was an accident, Boss! The girl moved…"

Harlequin got to her feet and saw what had happened. Or the aftermath of it. Ashlei was on the ground, blood staining her trench coat. The hilt of Seth's knife poked out from between her eyes. Glassier cradled her, amber eyes full of surprise. Slowly, he raised his head to look at the other man.

"You killed my daughter," he said, simply.

"I didn't! That _bitch_ did!"

She nodded to the sniper, confirming that she was unscathed. In reply, he went to stand beside her.

Now Glassier was standing, approaching Seth with the very knife that had killed his daughter. His eyes were dead. His voice was almost a whisper.

"First you die. Then the rest."

The green-eyed man was backing away rapidly, but his boss was faster than he ever could be. The amber-eyed man became a blur, and suddenly Seth was slumped on the ground, his throat slit, blood leaking out.

"Nice one, Valentine," Harlequin called, giving a thumbs-up.

Out of the corner of her mouth, she muttered, "Seb, shoot him. Now."

The moment Glassier turned to face them, the sniper opened fire. Bullet after bullet tore gobbets of flesh from the man's body, reducing him to a bullet-ridden training dummy.

Silence, blessed silence.

The girl reached up and slapped Sebastian. "Where the _fuck_ were you?!"

"They beat me up somewhat," was the answer, accompanied with a tiny shrug.

She frowned. "We never got the name of the employer."

"Sherlock knows."

"Truer words have never been spoken."

Walking over to the consulting detective's body, ignoring the countless of people gaping at her, at the carnage, she turned him on his back and slapped him a couple of times.

"Hey, pansy, wakey wakey," she snapped, as those dark eyes fluttered open.

Sherlock bolted upright, touched the blood on his face, and looked around. "Well, isn't this the ideal situation?"

"Yeah, the ideal situation to ask you who the _fuck_ employed you to kill me."

"I want you to promise me something," he said, as he got up.

"What?" The girl was getting impatient. There were people to kill out there, scores to settle.

"Don't touch my friends. Don't tell them I'm alive."

"Hm. I _do_ enjoy their stupid little lives. And I _do_ suppose I owe you one," she admitted, grudgingly. "So okay. Now tell me what I want to hear."

"It's going to come as a little stun, but it's James. He hired me."

_Ho-ly shit._

Never in her wildest dreams would the conclusion be her own fucking uncle. Harlequin snorted. "Huh. Thanks."

"A pleasure."

"See you around?"

"Highly possible. I'll be back in action soon enough."

She stuck out her hand, and he shook it, firmly. Then the consulting detective strode out of the hospital.

Sebastian nudged Harlequin. "Time to go and kick some ass again?"

"Hell yes." She looked at their audience. "Sorry for making a goddamn mess, but it was necessary."

Giving a little wave, she gripped her sniper's arm and walked out.


End file.
